New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

“Pretty quick, actually. It’s probably been trying to kick through all damn day.” Dissatisfied, restless, she rocked on her heels. “Still slow. Another problem is she probably got most of this, if not all, online. It’ll take longer to track down transactions.”

“You believe she’s in love with him.”

Eve stared at the ID shots, felt that little trip again. “I believe she believes it.”

“I’ll wager she bought locally for some of it. The linens particularly. She’s setting up house, isn’t she? She’d want to touch them, examine them, fuss a bit.”

“Really?”

“Not everyone objects to shopping on almost religious grounds.” Like Eve, he studied the woman’s ID shots. “She’s hard, you say, tough, experienced. But he’s found a weak spot. And that part of her might enjoy taking the time, in person, to select—especially what she imagines touching his body, and hers.”

“That’s good. Almost Mira good. Well, it’d be a break if she did, and if some clerk recognizes her. Meanwhile—”

“Meanwhile, I have a line on the van, or what I think may be the van.”

“Already?”

“I started earlier, in EDD. But find I work much better without that itch between my shoulder blades. A ’fifty-two panel van, blue,” he continued as he walked over to program coffee for both of them. “Registered to the Heartfelt Christian League—which is bogus, by the way. I thought, if Sister Suzan made the purchase, she might use some church-type organization for the registration, so I started there.”

“Good start.”

“Well, you’d be surprised how many church-type organizations have vans, and have bought same in the last year or so. I tracked this one back to its previous owner, a Jerimiah Constance—who’s a devout Christian, by the way, in a little town called Mayville, just this side of the Louisiana border. As Sister Suzan had a Baton Rouge address on that ID, it’s a nice link. Cash transaction,” he added. “Sister Suzan Devon’s signature’s on the transfer papers.”

“God, that feels good. I need everything you’ve got.”

“Already copied to your unit.”

She spun on her heel, went back to the desk. “We’ll get this out. It’s probably been painted, but that’s another avenue there. And she’ll have switched the tags, but it’s good. I’m going to nudge the feds to verify, have somebody interview God-fearing Jerimiah.”

“I’m still working on the money. McQueen’s covered himself well in that area.”

“He’s good,” she said as she sent out the new data. “You’re better.”

“Yes, of course, but thanks all the same.”

“We’re on a nice roll here. Let’s keep it going. Let’s go harass some apartment-dwelling Texans.”

Roarke toasted her with his coffee. “Yee-ha.”

The building showed some wear, squatting in the lowering light. The patch of parking on the side apparently doubled as a playground as a bunch of kids ran between and around cars, shouting the way kids always seemed to at play.

Security was just shy of adequate, but as several windows were wide open to the nonexistent breeze—just inviting a visit from thieves—she assumed nobody cared.

As she got out of the car one of the kids barreled straight into her.

“Tag! You’re It!”

“No, I’m not.”

He grinned, showing a wide gap where, hopefully, his two front teeth would grow in at some point. “We’re playing Tag. Who are you?”

“I’m the police.”

“We play Cops ’n’ Robbers, too. I like being a robber. You can arrest me.”

“Get back to me in about ten years.”

She eyed the entrance, eyed the kid. What the hell, you had to start somewhere. She pulled out the ID of Sarajo Whitehead. “Do you know her?”